


nothing more than we need

by finkpishnets



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 15:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13149486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finkpishnets/pseuds/finkpishnets
Summary: Clary and Izzy meet in a bar.





	nothing more than we need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mia_Zeklos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mia_Zeklos/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Большего нам и не нужно](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034225) by [Freedom_N_G](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freedom_N_G/pseuds/Freedom_N_G)



> happy holidays, mia!
> 
> i'm always happy to write an all human au, and i had the urge to write clary and isabelle meeting and flirting under different circumstances, which i hope works for you ♥︎
> 
> (thanks to the lovely bern for looking over for it.)

**~**

 

 

“So, do you work out?” Douchebag #1 asks, leaning against the bar and flexing the muscles in his arm. His friends, Douchebags #2 and #3 laugh, spilling beer over the bar in their haste to nudge each other, and Clary only just manages not to roll her eyes.

The bar’s too full, bodies pressed together and the overwhelming smell of perfume and liquor and sweat giving her a headache. Clary’s still nursing her second cocktail, clutching her phone in the hope Simon will _finally_ reply to her three voicemail messages, and wondering why she’d let him talk her into this in the first place.

“Yes,” she says, when Douchebag #1 leans in closer. “I do a lot of self-defence and martial arts. My dad’s a cop, so…” Said with a particular look and a casual shrug, it’s normally enough to make guys get the picture, but Douchebag #1 just nods, eyes glazed, and she’s fairly certain he’s not heard a word she’s said.

“Cool, cool,” he says. “Yeah, I lift, y’know, obviously.”

Clary wonders if this has ever worked on any girl, ever. Douchebags #2 and #3 start cheering, flexing their own biceps, and Clary’s sure there’s a sociology paper here about pack mentality in college boys.

“D’you have a boyfriend?” Douchebag #1 says. “Is he gonna try and deck me for getting all up on this?”

If Clary had more room to move, _she_ would deck him.

“No, I—” she starts, but then there’s soft hair and expensive perfume and curves pressed against her side.

“Sorry I’m late, babe. Work was a nightmare.” 

The girl pulls back to smile, and her face is turned so only Clary sees her wink.

“Hi,” Clary says, and hopes it doesn’t sound like a question.

“Thanks for keeping my girl company,” the girl says, turning to Douchebag #1 who’s eyeing her black leather dress with awed disbelief. 

He opens his mouth to say something inevitably gross and predictable, but the girl doesn’t give him the chance, sliding into the tiny gap in front of him and facing Clary, effectively shutting him out. Clary bites back a smile at his offended expression as he turns back to Douchebags #2 and #3, who offer their sincere condolences, along with something that sounds a lot like “lesbians, man, what can you do?”

“Thanks,” she says, with a laugh. “You totally just saved my IQ.”

The girl laughs, holding out her hand, and Clary hopes she’s not blushing _too_ badly as she shakes it. “I’m Isabelle,” the girl says, “and you’re very welcome,…?”

“Clary,” Clary says, tucking her hair back behind her ear.

“You’re very welcome, Clary,” Isabelle says. “Can I get you a drink?”

Clary looks down at the dregs of her Mojito. There’s still no answer from Simon, and he’s late enough now that Clary should just leave, but—

“Sure,” she says. “But let me get them. I owe you.”

Isabelle laughs, flicking her hair back over her shoulder, and Clary tries to remember to breathe.

“Okay,” Isabelle says. “If you insist.”

 

 

**~**

 

 

They manage to grab stools as a party of businesswomen leave, and even though it’s too loud and too crowded and too much, tucked up against the end of the bar, bowed close, it almost feels private. It’s only when Clary’s phone buzzes that she realizes they’ve been talking for an hour already, about everything from bars they usually frequent to favorite movies to family.

There’s a string of texts from Simon, and she scrolls through them, a little concerned.

_OMG I’M SO SORRY_

_Had to work late bc Raphael hates me._

_He’s ordered us dinner!!! I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to you._

“Date?” Isabelle asks casually, taking a sip of her drink and Clary laughs.

“Best friend,” she says. “He stood me up for his boss.”

Isabelle raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Clary says. “Exactly. Not that they’ve admitted it, but. Yeah.”

“You’re an artist?” Isabelle asks as Clary tucks her phone back into her purse, and Clary blinks.

“Yeah,” she says. “How’d you know?”

“I’m a forensic scientist,” Isabelle says. “I’m good at this stuff.” She takes Clary’s hand, brushing the pad of her thumb over Clary’s wrist. “Also, you have paint on you.”

Clary gives a startled laugh, seeing the smudge of bright yellow she’d been using earlier in the day. “Oops.”

Isabelle’s thumb moves up to her palm, and it would only take a twist of Clary’s hand to tangle their fingers together. Clary’s _sure_ they’re flirting, almost positive - but not positive enough, not yet.

Isabelle’s breathtaking, the sort of beauty that makes Clary itch for a brush, makes her want to immortalize the amused tilt of Isabelle’s smile, the way the light reflects the mischief in her eyes, the lean strength coiled under her skin.

“Are we flirting?” Clary asks before she can stop herself, and _God_ , she sounds like _Simon_ , but she has to know.

Isabelle’s eyes glitter under the bar chandeliers. “Was I being subtle?” she says. “No one’s ever accused me of that before.”

Clary can feel the flush spreading over her cheeks and down her neck, knows her pupils are too dilated, and this isn’t the first time she’s met someone in a bar, but it’s the first time she’s been this attracted to them. 

“I was just checking,” she says, and slips her fingers between Isabelle’s. 

Isabelle’s smile slides into something softer, and Clary’s suddenly hit with the absolute certainty that she could fall in love with this girl.

“Do you want another drink?” Isabelle asks, and if it wasn’t so unbelievable, Clary would swear Isabelle was blushing, too.

“That depends,” she says, and tries to remember to be brave. “If we’re planning to get out of here, I should stop.”

Isabelle’s breath catches, and Clary thinks _’I did that’._

“My brothers are travelling,” Isabelle says, “so my place is free…?”

“Yes,” Clary says, too quickly. “ _Yes._ ”

“Great,” Isabelle says, sliding off her stool and reaching for her purse. They both fumble for cash, and Clary’s sure they end up leaving an overly substantial tip in their haste and doesn’t care even a little.

“After you,” Clary says, letting Isabelle take the lead.

(And _damn_ if Douchebag #1 wasn’t right about that dress.)

 

 

**~**

 

 

There’s a long queue at the taxi rank but Clary doesn’t mind, brushing her fingers against Isabelle’s hip as they stand close together, shutting out the slight chill. New York City feels good in her lungs after the stifling pressure of the bar, and they don’t have to shout to be heard, lowering their voices until they’re practically whispering, their conversations meant just for the two of them even if they’re little more than the push and pull of sweet, sincere compliments.

Clary knows she falls too hard, too fast, but this doesn’t feel like that. It feels exciting and easy and _inevitable_ , and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but she can already picture the morning, lazing between Isabelle’s sheets, eating toast and sharing lingering kisses, and exchanging numbers with the knowledge that neither of them are playing games.

It _could_ be wishful thinking, but Clary looks at Isabelle’s smile and doesn’t think so.

“Hey!” someone shouts, and _of course_ it’s Douchebag #1, #2 and #3 trailing in his wake. Clary tenses, and feels Isabelle do the same, relieved to see that, like her, it’s into a self-defence stance. Clary likes a girl who knows how to throw a punch when necessary. 

“What?” Isabelle asks, tone stern, and Douchebag #1 raises his hands in surrender.

“Woah, no, I just wanted to say—” He breaks off to hiccup, and Douchebag #2 slips an arm under his shoulder to hold him up. “I just wanted to say no hard feelings, and you guys are a super hot couple, yeah? Good for you.”

He follows it up with drunken finger guns, and Clary laughs.

“Thanks,” she says, and it’s only a little sarcastic. Isabelle rolls her eyes, but she’s relaxed too, looking amused as the guys stumble towards the subway station.

“He _is_ right,” Isabelle says. “We are hot.”

Clary smiles, moving closer. They’re almost at the front of the taxi queue now, and Clary thinks about their thighs pressing together in the back of the cab, thinks about the anxious excitement of kissing someone new, of learning the dips and angles of their body.

“Good for us,” she says, just to feel the breath of Isabelle’s laugh.

“I’m going to kiss you now, okay?” Isabelle says, and Clary’s eyes drop to Isabelle’s lips, toes curling in her uncomfortable stilettos.

“Well,” Clary says, “you _are_ my knight in leather armor…”

As Isabelle leans in, Clary thinks _‘I owe the Douchebags a drink…’_ , and then Isabelle’s smile is pressed against hers, soft and hot and _perfect_ , and she stops thinking about much at all.

  
  



End file.
